The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Rodion, tag them as Blight variants."

<Confirmed. Advising minimal noise until their patrol path is confirmed. Current estimated vector: south corridor—sixteen meters from your room.>

Sixteen meters. That was too close for comfort.

He tapped the table with two fingers, thinking in fast spirals. He needed more data—guard rotations, blind spots, magical wards—and he needed it before those rune-etched things got curious.

He opened the tablet fully, flipping the chipped hinge so the screen lay flat. His stylus emerged from a magnetic slot. The local-mapping software flickered offline but alive, showing a ghostly schematic built from ant breadcrumbs. Each micro unit left a trace that triangulated itself back to the central hub: green for workers, amber for soldiers. The lines formed a rough star around his room.

He quick-sketched a circle over the corridor intersection: High traffic. A square on a nearby alcove: Potential vantage. A triangle by his door: Surveillance risk.

He angled the stylus between his fingers. Every move tracked—must appear idle.

With a sigh, he minimized the map and launched his favorite puzzle-strategy game—Bug Brigade Heroes!. A chibi beetle mascot greeted him with an exaggerated salute and a squeaky "Let's rescue the larvae!" He turned the volume down to a whisper.

Cover story: bored prisoner, passing time. Real story: mapping your security like a termite in your beams.

He matched colored nectar drops, letting the game's cheerful pops cover the soft scratch of stylus on wood as he poured ant-route times into a rosetta of tiny figures. Each time he cleared a level he glanced at the door, listening for footsteps.

Rodion cut in, voice pitched low:

<Footsteps at 30-second intervals from east corridor. Likely ward-check patrol. Distance reducing.>

He nodded slightly, eyes on the tablet yet mind on escape angles. Three hidey holes, he decided. Behind the thick mushroom cluster—shelf-height but dense. Beneath the arched root—space enough to hunker if he pressed flat. And in that collapsed alcove where dusty jars leaned like drunk scholars—he could vanish behind them if lights dimmed.

He typed quick macros: ants 04–07 mark lie low spots in blue.

His game beeped—level failed. He groaned theatrically, ruffling his hair. Just a frustrated prince, nothing more. He even muttered about lag for effect.

Another subtitle line ghosted across his HUD, lingering like a breath on glass.

"The rot feeds what the sun forgets."

That … old Elvish. Corrupted dialect. Probably Blight-touched.

Mikhailis leaned closer to the holographic feed, thumb and forefinger pinching the air to zoom the image. Each new pixel revealed more unsettling detail: ribs too sharp beneath waxy skin, veins black as squid ink pulsing under the glyphs, a throat that fluttered open and shut like gills. The creatures' shoulders quivered at odd angles, as if the bones no longer agreed where they should sit.

Ugly fusion of elf and fungus, he decided. Somebody brewed these things in a cauldron of bad ideas.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Could be a cult offshoot. Or something deeper. Are these what's leaking from the leyline rift? The thought crawled cold fingers up his spine.

"Rodion, tag them as Blight variants. Avoid until further notice."

<Already done. May I suggest we not poke the glowing rune bears today?>

Despite everything, a lopsided grin tugged at his lips. "Sound advice, my fluffy oracle." His fingers danced across the tablet, overriding the sync failure and forcing the device into offline mapping. The screen flutter-glitched before stabilising, revealing a skeletal overlay of tunnels built from ant beacons: hair-thin green threads spider-webbed across a black background.

He tapped icons into place.

High Traffic — a thick green knot near the central fissure. Probably a patrol loop. Better keep my distance.

Surveillance Risk — two red triangles by a row of fungus torches, where shadows overlapped just enough to hide observers. That archway is practically a scrying mirror.

Vantage Point — a pale star marking a half-collapsed tunnel. Perfect perch if I ever need to spy without paying rent.

He paused, stylus hovering. Every move I make might be watched. A bead of sweat rolled past his temple. Can't risk doing anything weird… at least, nothing more weird than usual.

With a practiced flick, he minimised the tactical screen and opened Bug Brigade Heroes! A candy-coloured intro burst across the display, an anime beetle girl punching the air above a chibi anthill.

"Wahoo! Let's save the bug kingdom!" the mascot squealed.

Mikhailis smothered a laugh. "Yeah, let's do that." His thumb swiped through the first puzzle, matching nectar gems almost on autopilot. But his gaze kept darting to the room's shadows, making sure no hidden lenses glimmered back.

He angled the tablet slightly so anyone peeking through a keyhole would see only bright cartoons. With his other hand he scratched quick code words onto the tabletop—rough charcoal letters listing ant IDs, timestamps, echo distances measured by finger-snaps, and subtle flickers in lantern brightness. All the vital notes vanished under the game's cheerful chimes.

Rodion's voice ticked into his ear again, quieter this time, as if ducking under the game's music.

<Footfalls detected, 30-second rhythm, east corridor. Sound profile suggests two armoured elves, leather scale.>

Good. That's useful. He chewed a honey-flavoured crumb off his thumb. I'm in a semi-secure zone for now.

Game paused, he scrawled three bullet points in sharper charcoal:

– Mush cluster (north): dense cover, sweet smell masks scent

– Bent root (vent): crawlspace, four seconds to access

– Jar alcove (west): glass noise risk, good visual angle

He sent the silent command to the nearest worker ants. Tiny beacons flashed blue on his HUD.

<Done,> Rodion confirmed. <If any hideout is compromised, fallback directive will initiate.>

Mikhailis let the game resume. Instead of matching pieces efficiently, he fumbled a combo, provoking the beetle girl's cartoon pout. "Oops," he muttered loudly. "Stupid lag." He let an extra fifteen seconds pass before clearing the board—just enough to look convincingly bored.

The fungal lanterns along the walls pulsed, casting wide rings of teal and mint. Each pulse felt slower than the one before, like the room was drowsing. He used the rhythm to steady his heartbeat.

I can't look too good at this. They expect a pampered prince killing time, not a spider in their wiring.

A faint buzz vibrated through his pocket—almost nothing, but enough. He slid his phone out. A single bar flashed, then died. Still, the vibration meant a partial packet had squeezed through.

Rodion's voice clicked in at a whisper:

<New scout footage incoming. You may want to see this.>

He angled the phone and tablet together, splitting the screen for feed and map. The stream sprang to life: a low-angle view skimming over black water. An underground river shimmered, faint glyphs glowing beneath its surface like moonlight trapped in glass. The stone banks carried carving after carving, each symbol interlocking to create a circular net.

"Containment seal," he murmured. "Old. Pre-blight maybe."

The feed panned left. A figure stepped into view—an elven guard in lacquered armour, pale eyes sharp as chips of ice. The guard drew an arrow, nocked, and stared across the water as if expecting something to rise. Two heart-beats later, another guard mirrored the stance on the opposite bank. Silent. Professional.

They know those things are out there. He felt a pang of kinship with the silent sentry. Defending a dam with cracks you can't patch.

The stream cut out, screen fuzzing with static. Mikhailis hissed, thumb stabbing controls. The glitch spread, white lines racing across the tablet like frost. He slapped the power button. No use; the glitch resolved itself into a blank, grey screen.

His breath frosted in the air. Except—there was no chill.

Then the floor rumbled. Only a whisper at first, a distant cart rolling over planks. It grew—a low, bone-humming vibration that crawled up chair legs, into his shins, settling behind his teeth like bees in a jar.

"Hells." He pressed fingertips to the tabletop, feeling the tremor spread through the wood. "Rodion. What was that?"

The AI's voice came clipped, urgent.

<Magnetic distortion. Source directly beneath or above. Correlation with Blight activity: high. Strong possibility of leyline resonance spike.>

He shoved tablet and phone into his coat. The pocket-watch disappeared beside them with a soft click. The flask he checked—runes still intact, liquid swirling faintly silver. All accounted for. Honey-crumbs got swept off the table and into his coat pocket because, well, sugar was sugar.

He drew one slow breath. Cerys always says: if the ground shakes and your instincts scream, trust the scream. He centred his weight, flexed knees, the way sword instructors drilled into him back at the barracks.

Rodion piped:

<Structural integrity holds. Tremor amplitude decreasing.>

Yet Mikhailis stayed alert. He rolled his shoulders once, twice, loosening tension.

The door creaked.

Not a thunderous slam, just a careful whrrk of root hinges. But in the hush it sounded like a cannon. He twisted toward it.

Didn't hear footsteps. Either they float, or that rumble covered them.

A silhouette filled the doorway, cast by lanternlight into ragged edges: tall, narrow-shouldered, robed in woven bark strips that rustled like paper. Long hair poured down the figure's back, silver catching green light.

The voice flowed, calm but unyielding, like water over polished stone. "Prince Volkov. The Elder Matria is waiting."

Mikhailis lifted an eyebrow, performing a lazy half-smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Well, it'd be rude to keep royalty waiting, wouldn't it?" He swept a hand over his coat as though brushing dust—really checking the hidden ant-latches one last time.

Every data point, every ant trail, every whispered rune—they all led here.

He stepped toward the threshold. Lantern light washed across his boots, across the retreating figure. For an instant the tremor returned, faint, like a subterranean heartbeat echoing his own.

A low, bone-humming vibration moved through the chamber. Mikhailis sat up straight, eyes narrowing.